Part 2-The Lessons in Bicycles

And so we return to our intrepid little bicyclist who joyously pedals around unaided by training wheels...

Riding my bike was one of my favorite outdoor activities as a kid.  The bike I learned on was a tiny green second-hand bike my mom got from who knows where.  She was pretty resourceful.  I loved my bike.  Even when I learned to ride it, it was already getting too small for me.  By the time the next summer rolled around I think I probably looked pretty comical as my knees bounced somewhere near armpit level with each pump of the pedals.  It was ok with me though it is important to note the bike also lacked a kickstand for parking it.  Sure I would have welcomed a new bike but this was the one I had and I was really happy to have it.  Did I mention I loved my bike? 

One perfect day I was riding up and down the alley with my friends when I passed the back yard and saw my grandparents had arrived for a visit.  Now, understand the set-up of the yard.  The house was a duplex with no front yard with only a small backyard, which ended at the alley.  There was a carport by the alley for our car and we kept our bikes in a small metal shed or on the closed in back porch.  Either storage place was kind of a pain because it involved either wrestling with a stubborn sliding metal door on the shed or hefting the bike up steps and holding the porch door open while dragging the bike onto the porch.  Neither option was quick and easy and I had grandparents to visit!  Grandparents were one of the few things that would draw me away from riding my bike.

I opted to quickly ditch the bike next to the carport, in my own yard...leaning up against the garbage can...You know, I was being careful not to just toss it on the ground since it didn't have a kickstand.

I ran inside to see my grandparents, who were always doting.  We enjoyed a typical and happy visit.  In the back of my mind I made note of the sound of the garbage truck crawling down the alley.  Soon enough the visit came to an end and we all walked my grandparents out to their car, which was parked in the grass next to the carport with the garbage can and, presumably, my bike in between.

Except the previously full can was now empty...and my bike was gone.  At first I thought my bike had just been moved.  Then I angrily thought someone had stolen it.  Then my mother told me if it was leaning up against the can the garbageman probably thought it was to be hauled to the dump and that's what I get for not being responsible to put my bike away.  The realization made my stomach sink.  My eyes welled up as I thought about some ogre of a garbageman thinking my precious bike was mere junk. I bawled imagining a ravenous truck munching on my poor little bike like some sort of snack.  I was heart-broken.  There was much wailing.  My mother remained unsympathetic and forbid my grandparents from going out to buy me a new one.

My grandfather tried to console me as I sobbed.  I just knew all hope was lost.  My bike had to be compacted into bits by now and was being digested in the belly of the truck among a week's worth of tin cans, coffee grinds, newspapers, dirty diapers, and rotten food.  It was unbearable.

Equally unbearable was watching my friends ride their bikes up and down the alley while I had none.  I think at one desperate point I dragged out my old Big Wheel to try to ride but I was far too big for it and the plastic wheels were pretty badly degraded by then as well.  The whole situation was just miserable and I well knew there was no money for a replacement.  Even if there were, Mom made it clear that I had a hard lesson to learn about taking proper care of my things.  As far as I could tell, I was out of luck for a long time.

I don't know what period of time passed.  It could have been a day, a week, or more for all I knew.  Whatever length of time it was felt like forever because of the hopelessness of the situation. The day came that my grandfather appeared at our house.  It was unusual because he was alone and he always came with my grandmother.  Also unusual was that it was not a Thursday.  He and my grandmother always came to visit us on a Thursday.  Such rituals may seem strange but it was reassuring to me to know I could count on seeing them every Thursday.  Whatever day it was and after whatever amount of time, he was there and he was smiling ear to ear.

He called me out back because he said he had something for me.  I followed him and there beside his car, next to the garbage can, was my beloved bike.  It was somewhat bent and a little scraped up but it was unmistakeably MY bike.  I was elated!  I threw my arms around my grandfather and asked how he got my bike back.  He brushed off my question and said not to worry about that just to enjoy my bike.  I thanked him again and again.  He just smiled and said he couldn't let his princess (the buckskin kind, not the ballgown kind) go without her bike.  He had fixed it up as well as he could but he was sorry it was still a bit bent.

  My grandfather was my hero for rescuing my bike from the dump.  As I pedaled crookedly up and down the alley, with my knees hitting my armpits I imagined him searching through mountains of stinking garbage to find my bike.  I learned the love that would motivate him to do that meant more than if he'd gone out to buy me a shiny new bike with a straight frame and unmarred paint.  I also learned to never park my bike by the garbage can again.

Quilts on Tuesday-Learning a Little

Anyone out there getting tired of this quilt series? If you are fear not, this is the last one for a while. I've showed you a lot of my mom's work that was done for me. I've shown you work by other family members and friends. I've told you how I grew up playing under quilt frames and how my mom has been willing to make the types of quilts I love even though it involves a lot of piecing which she is not overly fond of. This week I'll finish up with a little of my own work (and still more of my mom's).

This first piece is just a four block table runner. The friend who made the batik wall hanging ran a workshop to teach the log cabin technique. I was eager to give it a try. The idea of doing an entire quilt was more than a bit daunting. Doing four blocks and putting them together under the supervision of someone experienced was doable. You might ask why I didn't learn from my mom. Well, she had taught me to hand quilt and I was halfway proficient at that. I like the piecing of traditional patterns though and that has never been her thing. Here is my finished project. I don't use it on a daily basis but I do use it when I have a big meal with guests because the quilting of the runner makes it like a nice thick hot pad.

Here's a close up of one of the blocks so you can see some of the fabrics a little better. I did the quilting on this "in the ditch." That means the hand quilting goes right into the seams joining the strips of fabric so it it only enhances the piecing design as opposed to drawing attention to the design of the stitching itself. It was a fun little project and when I explained the technique to my mother she was interested in learning it herself. It was kind of amazing to me to be able to teach my mother something about quilting since I am only a beginner and she's been doing it her entire adult life.

Finally, we have the quilt mom made to replace the tattered log cabin quilt she made me 20 years ago. Once again, she told me I could choose any pattern I wanted. Once again I asked for a heavily pieced quilt. This time I found a pattern in the Amish style which means it is done in all solid. You'll notice the table runner is made of prints like calicoes and such. This quilt has only solid colored fabrics. If you know anything about me you know I like bold color. As I looked through different books this one just grabbed my eye immediately.

Mom, in her great love heaved a sigh and agreed to make it for me. She also suggested it might be fun to work on together. She agreed to do all the large and complicated blocks that you see running up the sides. I agreed to do the pinwheel patterns that go up the middle as well as the flying geese strips on the other sides of the large single blocks. I realized this picture doesn't show the flying gees so here is a picture to let you see what that pattern would look like. Pinwheels and flying geese were reasonably uncomplicated blocks for a beginner like me and if I did them it would free Mom to figure out how to do some of the crazier ones that she'd never done herself. It also makes it special to me that we worked on this quilt together.

Once all the blocks were done she assembled the entire top and did the quilting and binding. Since her arthritis has made hand quilting too painful she machine quilted the blocks in the ditch and then added some other patterns within the black strips. I didn't want the quilting to detract from the patterns of the blocks so the patterns in the strips are just parallel lines with the occasional, random mirror of either a flying geese or pinwheel pattern. The top came out beautifully with the traditional look I really wanted. The totally non-traditional part is the backing, which was as close to tie dyed as we could find. I love this quilt for so many reasons. The love Mom showed again in being willing to make it, the time we spent working on it together, the traditional top, the crazy back are all things that make this MY quilt in ways that no commercially produced quilt could ever be. Oh, and one more thing...Mom has her own tradition. She says a quilt is not complete until a drop of blood has been spilled on it. Some people think that's a bit gruesome. We're not talking crime scene spatters here, just the natural occurrence of pricking your finger at some point during the process of handling needles and such. When the minor accident happens the quilt is christened with that little drop of blood. Yes, Mom and I both "completed" this quilt in her traditional fashion.

Friday 55 & Da Count-Do You Love Me?

FRIDAY 55

Do I matter?
Is my absence a vacuum that no other can fill?
Does my presence bless you, will you bless me?
Do you act on my behalf grudgingly or gladly?
Does the thought of me warm you on a cold day?
If you were choosing again would you choose me?
Do you love me?


*image from http://www.films42.com/columns/DLT-T_Golde.jpg




DA COUNT

I was struck by the ruminations in John Michael's post this week when he asks how to interpret the question Tevye and Golde ask each other "Do you love me?" in The Fiddler on the Roof. They've spent the better part of their lives together after an arranged marriage, raised a family, and seem generally content but the question of love arises.

One of my favorite Norah Jones songs is What Am I to You?. She talks about how she will express herself to one she loves and then poses the title question. I love you and these are the lengths I will go to. Do you love me and how will I know?

I've read about the Five Love Languages and how we each speak and want to be spoken to in what is our "native language." It could be words of affirmation, quality time, receiving gifts, acts of service, or physical touch. We probably enjoy all of them to some extent but one will be the most preferred mode.

There are individuals I love but I wonder if that is returned. I wonder what I am to them. I feel as if we speak two different languages and there is no interpreter in sight. There are those who speak a very different language and yet we find a way to "communicate" the most important truth of mutual love. There are other people with whom I feel no doubt and I know we speak the same language. It's like coming home from a foreign country and finding a familiar and easy comfort you've craved.

Today I'm counting the ones who strive to make sure we understand each other well even when it's not easy, and the ones who need no interpretation.

Now tell me, how do you let people know you love them? What lets you know you are loved?

Quilts on Tuesday-Oh, Baby!

The first quilt my mom ever made was a doll-sized quilt with appliqued tulips. Since that time she has made more baby quilts than I can even remember. She likes making baby quilts because they are quicker to do since they are small and they give her an opportunity to play with new techniques she wants to try without having to commit to a huge bed-sized quilt. She has made baby quilts for many grand nieces and nephews as well as children and grandchildren of friends. For a while she was also producing several a year for Project Linus which is an organization that provides "security blankets" for critically ill or otherwise traumatized children.

It was natural that once her own grandchildren started arriving she'd provide each of them with a quilt. Before I share the ones my mom has made though I will share one my great grandmother made for my uncle when he was a baby. My paternal grandmother wanted to give me the one that had been made for my father but it has pretty much fallen apart. Since my cousins had no interest in such things I was blessed with the one made for their father instead. It's much smaller than the crib-sized quilts my mom made but it was the perfect size for when my kids were in bassinets and cradles.

Here's a close up of the hand stitching holding the bird appliques to the quilt top. Although I'm not a big fan of applique I have always though this was such a pretty piece. It has held up beautifully for being over 70 years old and the colors are still so vibrant.

Here's the gratuitous "cute baby shot" of Diana sleeping soundly under it.

As promised here are the baby quilts my mom made for each of my kids. Diana's is appliqued. Mom also made my wedding gown and all of my bridesmaids' gowns. If you can see, the bear is wearing a white top hat. That is satin a satin scrap from my gown. The red saddle and rocker are scraps from the bridesmaids' gowns.

For Calypso's quilt Mom enjoyed experimenting with fabric paint. As it turned out, yellow was Calypso's favorite color for a long time.

When Isaac came along Mom was learning to cross stitch so she cross-stitched the designs on the top of his quilt. Her cross-stitch period didn't last long since she was beginning to develop arthritis in her hands and even hand quilting soon became a thing of the past for her. She indulged herself in a top of the line sewing machine and now machine quilts.

Each of these quilts are carefully packed away to be passed on when my children are having their own children. My grandmother crocheted blankets and sweaters for me and for my children. My mother made quilts for each of us. I'll have to make something for the next generation when it is my turn. I hope my kids don't mind tie dyed onesies...

Friday 55 & Da Count-Three Little Words

They are

not baubles to bestow

only to be revoked when I fail to perform,

not a drug with a dosage

to be carefully controlled to avoid addiction,

not some scrap of food

to be carefully rationed in such portions

that hunger pangs grow worse for having tasted.

Speak them, live them.

'I love you.'

*image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/gomi/3385367/

There are those people who may feel love but will never say the words or demonstrate it meaningfully. There are those who don't love you but who will say they do for the sake of manipulation. There are those who will say it because you've served some purpose in their life and they may mean it in their own limited way. I'm not counting any of them. I'm counting the few and unfettered souls who truly love enough to be there when it's hard to do so and when it costs something. I'm counting the ones who truly mean the words and who freely express them in utmost sincerity knowing what a gift and healing balm it is to do so. You know who you are. I want you to know how much you mean, that I do not take those words for granted, and that I love you as well.